Eyes of a Stalker Read online

  Before I got any further with these thoughts, Betts appeared in the kitchen. She said good morning to all of us, slid into the empty chair at the table, and looked around hopefully.

  “Betts, honey, what would you like for breakfast?” Mom asked at once. Betts always makes a big deal of Mom’s cooking, which gets her special treatment whenever she’s over at mealtime.

  “I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble,” Betts lied.

  “Don’t be silly, dear. It’s no trouble at all.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.… I was just thinking of the awesome omelette you made the last time I stayed over. If it’s honestly not a bother.”

  By the time she’d said “bother,” Mom was already at the fridge getting out the eggs and other ingredients. She makes these fantastic spicy omelettes with tomatoes and cheese and cayenne pepper and whatever else strikes her as a good idea to toss in at the time.

  “Did you want one too, Shelby?”

  “I think I’ll just have cereal,” I said. “Thanks, though.”

  “You forgot to ask me,” Dad said.

  “I didn’t forget, Randall,” Mom told him sternly. “You had eggs a few days ago, and you know you’re supposed to be watching your cholesterol. Besides, you already had your breakfast.”

  “If you can call that breakfast,” Dad sulked. (He’d just finished yogurt, a banana, and a slice of toast with apricot preserves.) “I must say, this is a fine way to treat a man in his own house.”

  “Yeah, that’s too bad,” Betts said without the slightest trace of sympathy.

  Dad sighed and looked mournful. Mom told him to stop putting on the dog, whatever that means, and he gave up, finished his coffee, and went off to the other room.

  I poured a bowl of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and munched on them while Betts ate her omelette. As she chewed, she made a lot of enthusiastic “Mmm” sounds so it was probably just as well that Dad wasn’t there.

  After we finished eating we helped Mom with the dishes. Betts had plans to go shopping with her cousin after lunch, so she headed home not long afterward. I did my chores, worked on some homework, and grated some carrots for a cake Mom was making.

  Dad went and fetched Mr. Stanley just after one o’clock. I met them at the back door, hugged Mr. Stanley, and took him into the living room where he settled into Dad’s favourite chair. Mom or I would get chased out, but Dad lets Mr. Stanley sit there every week.

  “I don’t suppose the little rascal is around,” our guest said as soon as he was comfortable.

  “Ernie!” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought to round him up, like I do every time Mr. Stanley is coming. “I’ll go find him right now.”

  I hunted through the house calling his name, but there was no sign of him. He was either hiding or outside.

  “I might have let him out earlier,” Mom said when I asked if she’d seen him.

  Great! If he’d gone wandering around the community it might take hours to find him, and I knew how important spending time with Ernie was to Mr. Stanley.

  “I think he might be outside,” I reported, before I threw on my jacket and went to look. “I’m sure it will just take a minute to find him.”

  “You’re a good girl,” Mr. Stanley said. He tells me that almost every time I see him.

  I searched the yard quickly and then, when he didn’t appear, started down the street, calling his name and telling him he had a special visitor. Mr. Stanley once told me that Ernie could understand what you were saying to him and even though I doubted it, there seemed no harm in trying.

  I’d made two passes up and down our street and was almost right in front of my house again when I heard Ernie kind of yowl, which is his peculiar way of letting you know he is displeased with something.

  “Ernie?” The sound seemed to have come from a hedge along the back of our yard.

  Sure enough, when I got near the hedge, he suddenly burst out, streaking across the yard to the back step and pacing frantically until I crossed the yard and opened the door for him.

  I scooped him up and carried him through to the other room, where his former owner sat, anxiously waiting to see him. The second we came into view, Mr. Stanley’s eyes lit up and his face was kind of transformed. It was almost like he looked younger.

  “He was hiding,” I reported, passing Ernie to him. “Out in the hedge. I found him after I wasted a good fifteen minutes looking up and down the street.”

  “By yourself?” Dad looked at me with alarm.

  “Oh.” I’d forgotten all about not going anywhere alone. “Sorry. Anyway, it was okay. No one was around.”

  “Now, what have you been into?” Mr. Stanley asked Ernie as he snuggled him, his face pressed against Ernie’s head. “You smell kind of funny.”

  “Goodness knows what he’s been up to out there,” I said. “Does he smell like a cedar hedge?”

  “No, it’s more… I don’t know, exactly. Perfume maybe.”

  I leaned over and sniffed Ernie, who responded by purring loudly and rubbing his face against my nose. He did have a scent clinging to him, but I didn’t know what it was.

  “Who knows what he got into,” I said, giving him a little cheek rub. “Anyway, he’s sure glad to see you.”

  “I’m glad to see him, too,” Mr. Stanley said fondly. Then, chuckling a little with embarrassment, he added that he was also glad to see the rest of us.

  The remainder of his visit passed uneventfully, with Ernie sticking around and behaving reasonably well. Mr. Stanley seemed to enjoy meeting Greg and Dr. Taylor, and I could tell they took to him too. As for me, I was just happy there’d been no sign of the stalker.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What you need,” Webster was saying, “is a passion for your work. If the reader is to feel the words you must first live them, breathe them, become them.”

  I wasn’t sure how you’d go about “becoming” words, but I kept myself from asking. Lately, it seemed if you asked Webster a question about something he’d said, he took it as a challenge of some sort and launched into a lengthy, defensive spiel that didn’t actually give you an answer.

  The others must have caught on as well, because no one ever had questions for him anymore, though there’d been lots the first couple of months we’d been meeting. Back then he’d listen thoughtfully and give answers that made sense. The last few meetings, though, he’d seemed unfocused and, well, kind of off, if you know what I mean. He’d rave, and what he’d say wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense. And it was usually unconnected to whatever we were talking about at the time.

  On this day, we sat quietly and waited for him to finish talking, which was the way we’d become accustomed to responding lately. Sitting next to me, Greg ventured a glance in my direction and I saw his eyebrows go up slightly, but he was as silent as everyone else.

  Mr. Grimes was the one who broke in, offering a weak comment about how he was sure that what Webster was saying was very helpful, but perhaps we should get back to the book.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Webster said. It was an odd thing to say, but even more peculiar than that was the fact that he never opened his mouth again for the rest of the evening. He just sat, looking around from person to person with a strangely intense look on his face.

  It was really starting to freak me out and when I felt his gaze on me I tried hard not to look back. It was impossible. As though drawn magnetically, I found my head tilting up and my eyes meeting his.

  A smile twitched at one corner of his mouth. It was gone so fast that I wondered later if I might have imagined it. Seconds later his look shifted, moving on to someone else.

  He’s lost his mind, I thought. Or maybe he’s on something. But of course, I didn’t voice either of those opinions out loud. Like the rest of the group, I did my best to act as if everything was perfectly normal.

  You ever notice how hard that is to do? The more you try to act natural, the more obvious it is that you’re acting. It’s like every word and
gesture is overdone. Smiles are exaggerated, anything you say comes out sounding not-quite-right, and you feel like your face is frozen with an expression that doesn’t quite fit.

  It was like torture trying to get through the rest of the meeting. I can’t remember a thing that was said, only that we were all doing our best to pretend we didn’t notice Webster sitting there looking from person to person, around the circle, again and again.

  When it finally ended we all left in a hurry, like they might lock the doors if we didn’t get out quickly enough. Once outside we stood huddled in a silent cluster, as if obeying some unspoken command, until we saw Webster exit the side door, get into his car, and drive off.

  As soon as he was gone, nervous laughter and talk started up. It seemed we all needed to make sure everyone else had felt the same thing at the meeting.

  “I’m telling you, he’s gone psycho,” Bruce Kerr said, tapping a finger against the side of his head.

  “I don’t even want to stay in the book club if he’s going to be there,” Sheri Poitras said. This drew murmurs of assent from Holly Holmes and Nora Stark.

  “He’s getting spooky, all right. And did you see the weird look he gave Shelby?” Jason Puckett said, confirming what I’d noticed earlier. “He has no right to do that.”

  Greg suggested we discuss it with Mr. Grimes. “We’re going to have to tell him we’re not comfortable with Webster there,” he said.

  “But Webster comes as a courtesy — to help us,” Sharon Marsh objected. “It would be insulting to tell him not to come anymore.”

  “So, we’re supposed to put up with whatever craziness he wants to dish out?” Jimmy Roth asked. “If we don’t want him around, we shouldn’t have to put up with him.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a published author,” Sharon said. It was an empty argument and made no sense, but Sharon is one of those super-nice people who never want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I knew she was just as uncomfortable with Webster around as the rest of us were, but she couldn’t bear the thought of making him feel bad.

  After a few more minutes it was decided that Jimmy and Sheri would go in and take the group’s message to Grimes. The rest of us waited outside.

  They were back in no time, walking fast and looking guilty. Jimmy gave us the news.

  “We didn’t get to talk to him,” he explained. “When we got to the classroom he was on his cell phone…”

  “Talking to someone about Webster!” Sheri cut in. “He was telling whoever it was that Webster seems to be having some kind of psychotic breakdown. Then he said something about contacting his family to see if he’s taking his medication.”

  “And he said Webster has a history of not taking his pills when he’s writing because he thinks they interfere with his muse or something.” Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  “We didn’t know what to do. I mean, we couldn’t barge in while he was on the phone. Grimes would have known we’d heard what he was saying,” Sheri said.

  “A psychotic breakdown,” Greg said.

  “Hey, your dad’s a shrink, right?” Lynn Wilcox smiled at Greg. I’ve noticed that she smiles at him a lot. “He’d probably know what kind of mental problem would make Webster act that way. Maybe you could ask him.”

  “Or maybe we could cut Webster a little slack for the time being,” Greg said. “It sounds like Mr. Grimes knows something needs to be done about this. Let’s just leave it at that and see what he does. We’ll be able to tell if the problem is fixed the next time Webster comes to a meeting.”

  “Yeah, I think Greg’s right,” Nora said. “I mean, if the guy has problems…”

  “That’s right! The least we can do is be understanding,” Sharon said. She looked really relieved.

  The whole group agreed with Greg’s suggestion. Even Annie Berkley spoke up, and she’s the quietest member of the group. Most of us know little about her other than her name and the fact that she lives in a foster home. I was surprised that she even joined the book club. Annie reads a lot — she often has a book with her even at lunchtime — but she’s also really shy.

  Once it was decided that we’d wait and see what happened with Webster, the group broke up, heading off in different directions. A few kids got picked up, but most of us walked.

  I was glad to have Greg with me and I noticed once again that he was keeping close watch on both sides of the street as we walked along.

  “I think maybe whoever it is has given up,” I said. “There’s been no sign of him since last Friday… and I’m actually starting to doubt myself about that. Maybe I just imagined that guy was following me. Or maybe whoever it was didn’t know I already had a boyfriend and then he found out I do so he’s backing off. There’s been nothing for almost a week. Maybe it’s over.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘maybes,’” Greg said. “And a week isn’t very long. I hope you’re not letting your guard down.”

  “Of course not. I’ll be careful until I’m sure. But whoever it was probably realized he was being ridiculous and stopped.”

  We were close to my place by then, and in spite of the confidence I’d put into my voice just a moment before, I jumped and gasped when a car suddenly pulled up beside us with a blast from the horn.

  “It’s just your dad,” Greg said. “Looks like he’s going to give me a drive home.”

  I laughed at my own cowardice and we got into the car. Even so, it took almost all the way to Greg’s place and back for my heart to stop beating faster than normal.

  Feeling a little silly, I had a snack and then went to my room and booted my computer. I had an essay to finish by the end of the week, and it wasn’t going so well. That’s one kind of writing assignment I don’t particularly like, so I wanted to get it out of the way as soon as possible.

  Of course, I had to check my e-mail before I actually started working. And when I did, what I saw there sent a chill of horror right through me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sender’s name was a typical kind — a nickname (soreros) with a bunch of numbers behind it. It meant nothing to me. I just figured it was either junk mail or someone from school whose e-mail address was unfamiliar to me… until I clicked on it and started reading.

  I stared at the words on the screen. I read them again and again. It was as if shock had immobilized me and I was frozen there, forced to go over and over the ugly message. A message that reached right into my house — right into my room.

  So you think I have given up? As if I would give up what is rightfully mine. As if you can just walk away, when you are my destiny. It seems that you do not yet understand that YOU BELONG TO ME.

  Words spoken must be paid for. We will see who is RIDICULOUS!!!!! Perhaps your so-called boyfriend will not be so appealing when I am done.

  But YOU — you will be given a second chance. If you are wise, you will not anger me again.

  There was a strange, distant sound echoing in my head, like water crashing on the beach.

  “He heard me,” I whispered to my empty room. “He heard me talking to Greg.”

  Woodenly, I stood and made my way down the hall. I found Mom and Dad in the kitchen drinking tea and playing chess. My eyes went to the board automatically, but the pieces swam into a blur.

  “Shelby!” Mom cried. She was already standing, reaching for me. “What is it?”

  “An e-mail.” It was all I could get out before something cracked in me. I found myself crying. I kept trying not to. I told myself it was silly and wasn’t going to help anything, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

  Mom held me while Dad went to my room and read the message. I heard the printer whirring and seconds later he came back down the hall.

  “It looks like this creep has just made the mistake that will lead us to him,” he said as he walked to the phone. “They’ll be able to find out who he is by tracing this message.”

  “But it’s just a Yahoo account,” I said. “There’s no way he’d have put his real information in when he created it.”
/>   “Doesn’t matter. They can find out where a message was sent from,” Dad said.

  I hadn’t known that, and I wondered if the police would. When the squad car arrived in response to Dad’s call, I was dismayed to see Officer Mueller come through the door alone. He looked over the message Dad had printed out and then turned to me.

  “Do you know what this means?” He pointed to the line that said, “We will see who is RIDICULOUS!!!!!”

  “It looks like he was somewhere nearby when I was talking to my boyfriend a while ago.” I explained the conversation we’d had, and how I’d made a comment that maybe whoever was bothering me had realized it was ridiculous and had given up.

  Mueller stood silently for a couple of seconds when I’d finished talking. Then he turned to my dad.

  “Mr. Belgarden, I’m going to post a car in front of your house tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll see if we can trace the source of this message. However, even if we’re able to locate and charge this person, we may not be able to hold him for any length of time. How soon he’d be back on the street would depend on the charge, and whether or not the judge remanded him or let him out pending trial. I’d like to suggest that you get a home alarm company in to install a good security system. Something that covers every possible entrance.”

  “It’ll be done first thing in the morning,” Dad said. He looked as surprised as I felt, and I knew he hadn’t expected Mueller to take the e-mail as seriously as he had.

  Mueller went over some basic precautions. Some I was already doing, like not walking anywhere by myself, but others might never have entered my mind. He said I should stay away from windows and that we should keep the curtains closed after dark in case this weirdo was watching the house.

  “Stalkers don’t lay low for long. They tend to be driven to send messages and sometimes ‘souvenirs’ of some description. The meaning of anything he might leave may not be clear to you — you might not even be sure it’s from him — but don’t dismiss a single thing that shows up and seems out of place. Call us. This guy wants you to be thinking about him, so it’s almost guaranteed that he’ll contact you again soon.